


There's Nothing You Wouldn't Do

by Anonymous



Category: Robin Hood - All Media Types
Genre: Desk Sex, Large Cock, M/M, Size Kink, Trading Sex for Freedom, dubcon and rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Robin’s thoughts cascade through his head as he licks the Sheriff’s thumb, desperately trying to look like he could be innocent.





	There's Nothing You Wouldn't Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElysiumsFalling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysiumsFalling/gifts).



Robin’s thoughts cascade through his head as he licks the Sheriff’s thumb, desperately trying to look like he could be innocent.

It’s not  _ red-handed _ if he hasn’t stolen anything yet. It isn’t a crime to be where he isn’t supposed to be--

“Trespassing, Robin, is a crime.”

\--then again, maybe it is. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” Robin smiles slow and lets his eyes drift down the Sheriff’s body, studying the changes a decade has made. The first and most noticeable is the Sheriff’s black cape and hood, fresh dyed and new. It looks strange on the Sheriff’s broad shoulders--ominous in a way it’d never been on the former sheriff.

“Friend?” The Sheriff’s voice pours around Robin, low and smooth. For all that he has a face like a brick wall, the Sheriff has always had a good voice. “I have no memory of being your friend.”

“But at least we’re not enemies. Congratulations on the new cape,” Robin says, the last words muffled as the Sheriff’s thumb slips into his mouth. The Sheriff has big hands, thick thumbs, long and square fingers. His knuckles are thick as a farmer’s. 

He looks like--and is--a brute. Sadly, he isn’t an idiot. “What are you doing here so late at night?”

Robin widens his eyes, trying to look shocked. He’s not a good actor, really. He flicks his tongue against the Sheriff’s thumb, acutely conscious of the rolls of cloth he’d brought to muffle the sound of stolen coins. They’re inside the sack he brought to put stolen coins in, along with--it seemed like such a great idea at the time--a bottle of wine with a pre-written congratulations on your promotion note that he’d been intending to leave in the place of stolen coins. The sack is, of course, slung over his shoulder.

"No answers, Robin?” the new Sheriff of Nottingham asks, and Robin remembers him asking that same damn question ten years ago. Robin probably isn’t the first or last guy to have heard it--only the unluckiest, the one who got to hear it twice.

The thumb pulls out of his mouth, the Sheriff looking for an answer.

“I was looking for a little--something,” Robin says, using his body and eyes to turn it into a baldfaced lie of an invitation. “Maybe you can help?”

The baffled look on the Sheriff’s face is likely the only thing Robin will treasure from tonight. “What is in the sack, Robin.”

An attempt to regain control of the situation. “Wine,” Robin replies, pulling it out by the neck. The note is wrapped around it like a statement of intent. Robin offers it to the Sheriff anyway. 

The rapid hammering of Robin’s heart lessens the second the Sheriff grabs the bottle and puts it aside, intent on Robin and nothing else. He’s on the ground before he can blink, blood in his mouth and ringing in his ears. He spits blood, and then laughs, grinning through the radiating numbness that’s rolling back into pain.

His lip is bleeding and his brain feels rattled, but Robin’s taken worse. Anything the jumped-up Sheriff can do to him is going to pale in comparison.

He’s braced himself, coiled up like a spring to take whatever comes next and--the Sheriff turns away, goes to the fireplace in the corner of the office and throws a log in it. And another. He builds it up into a steady flame, turning the dark office gold and red, making long shadows waver across the floor and walls.

Robin swallows blood and pain, and drags himself to his feet. “Is that all you got?” he asks, his ability to leave well enough alone a stunted and broken thing.

The Sheriff’s head tilts, his eyes glowing in the firelight and the brutally sharp edge of his jaw a slash of shadow. “No.”

Robin hits the ground, stars swimming through his vision and a boot on his chest. He pants, stunned silent as the ringing in his ears slowly clears. The Sheriff is stronger than him, bigger, a hell of a lot more violent. Robin would say that at least he’s smarter, but he’s not actually sure if that’s true. 

The Sheriff crouches beside him, a knife held loosely in his fingers as he studies Robin like a cat studies a wounded bird. “Did you expect me to believe you?” he asks, and the pit of Robin’s stomach drops.

He’s going to die, Robin thinks, his heart a thunderous beat against the strange calm of his mind. There’s blood on his lips, he finds it when he licks them. Robin fumbles with the clasp of his cloak, needing a precious few seconds to pull it open. Then the laces of his shirt, his hands shaking a little when he bares his chest. “You going to--slide it into me, split me open on your knife?”

“You’re insane,” the Sheriff says, like he’s surprised to have the company. “Completely mad.”

“You could do my throat,” Robin suggests, dragging his fingers down the bared skin there. He feels the Sheriff’s eyes following his fingers, more intent than a hungry wolf. “Can’t say no, can I?”

“It won’t matter if you do.” The Sheriff’s eyes are lit demon yellow by the fire, but he’s playing with the knife, not putting it down. It spins around his fingers, flashing silver and gold, the edge polished mirror smooth.

Robin’s limbs feel steadier, less shaky when he drags his shirt up his chest, squirming out of it to leave himself naked from the waist up. He undoes his belt, grinning up at the Sheriff as he exposes his belly. “It’s hard to get the blood out.”

“What a considerate...victim.” The Sheriff strokes his stomach, and Robin has to fight every instinct he has to hold still, then arch into rough fingers like he wants them. The knife whips through the air in a blur of spinning silver, sinking into the Sheriff’s new desk with a dull thunk. “Do not mistake this for mercy, Robin.”

He laughs, he can’t even help himself. “I promise, I’ll never tell a soul,” Robin says. He never did the last time, he surely won’t this time either. He cries out, soft and breathy and calculated when the Sheriff jerks his pants down his legs, taking his boots with them. It leaves Robin completely bare except for his arm bracers, hardened leather worn silk smooth with age.

Robin’s hair falls away from his eyes as he strokes himself, his cock already mostly hard in an act of pure will. This is going to hurt in every way the Sheriff can think of and Robin would rather be anywhere else, but if this is how he survives tonight--

It clears some of the jitters in Robin’s nerves, reminding himself that there’s meaning to this pathetic display. If he lives, it’ll be worth it. If he doesn’t, it’s not going to matter then either.

The Sheriff’s belt is clasped with a buckle of pure silver that Robin’s going to steal before the night is over. Robin remembers the Sheriff’s cock in his mouth, the way it made his jaw ache to open so wide. He stares at the thick shadow beneath the Sheriff’s belt, thinking of how big it’d been, and trying to look hungry instead of afraid.

“You remember this.” The leather hisses as the Sheriff works his belt free from the buckle, casting a shadow like a snake on the wall behind him. “So do I.”

It’s big. Very big. Robin’s gaze flits past it once, twice, before he forces himself to stare at it. The Sheriff was blessed with a sizable endowment, so big that Robin’s hand wasn’t able to wrap around it last time he was forced to try. Robin hadn’t been fully grown then, still filling out a bit in the shoulders, but his hand size, surely, would not have changed.

“Most beg me to keep this away from them,” the Sheriff says. “But here you are, squirming on my floor like a whore hoping for tips.”

“A man can’t appreciate a quality claymore?” Robin’s mouth feels swollen, bruises rising along his jaw from where the Sheriff had nailed him with his massive fist. “Can’t say I’ve seen many that size.” It’s the God’s honest truth. Robin’s never seen a bigger cock.

The Sheriff strokes himself, clouded liquid welling from the slit and sliding down the massive shaft. His hands are so large that his cock looks less extraordinary in them, merely large instead of colossal.

Robin’s mouth is dry as ashes, fire’s heat rippling over his naked body as he spreads his legs and tries to blind himself to his very immediate future. The Sheriff reaches for him, grasping his hair and using it to drag Robin to his feet. Not fucking him on the floor then.

The Sheriff has a good foot on him, and Robin isn’t exactly small. When he shoves Robin facedown over the desk in the middle of the room, still gripping Robin’s hair like reins, his cock slaps against Robin’s back, heavy and hard on scarred skin.

He arches his back like he’s ready for this, like he wants that beastly thing in him. The scrape of a fingernail is the only warning that it’s the Sheriff’s finger pressing in dry. It feels like something tearing, and Robin can’t help the ragged breath he takes. He’s not bleeding, he’s done this enough times to know that. Not yet, anyway. Hopefully the Sheriff will use spit to ease his way at least--

A second finger spurs the fading pain into new heights, and Robin squirms, his cock barely even half-hard where it’s trapped between his belly and the polished wood. The Sheriff laughs behind him, a low chuckle, “Are you certain you want this? We could always just open up that bag of yours and see what you brought me.”

He swallows to loosen the knot of panic in his throat, and smiles to colour his words. “Is that all you’ve got?” Robin wants to bite and claw his way free, but if he must--if he has to--there’s nothing he won’t do to keep himself alive and in this fight. 

Another dry finger spears into his hole alongside the other two, and Robin amends his earlier thought. There was  _ almost _ nothing he wouldn’t do. “ _ It feels great _ ,” he lies, his legs shaking as the Sheriff twists his thick fingers. Robin’s voice cracks, just a little. 

Pain electrifies him, coursing up his spine and radiating through his ribs. It makes Robin’s skin prickle and sweat drip from his neck, makes his toes curl so tight they cramp and seize. His hands are relaxed and limp, a lie told with a desperate last scrap of self-control.

The Sheriff fucks him with his fingers, his free hand curls around Robin’s hip, resting there in a falsehood of gentleness. Robin doesn’t know why the Sheriff’s faking this, but he doesn’t know why he’s faking it either. He tries to concentrate on the near-caress, but being fucked dry by rough-skinned fingers too thick going too deep--

The hand on his hip disappears and Robin pressed his forehead against the polished wood, eyes squeezed shut. He hears the Sheriff spit, the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and considers himself a lucky man for once. 

“You’re taking this very well,” the Sheriff tells him, and Robin would have to be deaf to miss his amusement. He twists his fingers savagely, ripping a choked cry from Robin’s throat. “Do you want my cock, Robin?”

Robin nods once, jerky and tense in spite of his best efforts to relax. His face throbs where the Sheriff backhanded him earlier, a sullen counterpoint to the piercing thickness inside. Later, later he’ll take the long way home. Bath in the river until he’s numb from the cold, sink under the surface and hide there. 

Now, though, Robin turns his sob into a moan, shuddering like a leaf in the wind as the Sheriff drags his fingers free. The abrupt end to pain leaves aftershocks, but Robin breathes in the stillness as the deceptively soft head of the Sheriff’s cock slides against his raw hole. It’s wet, slick smears of spit and precome leaving marks on Robin’s skin.

Robin breathes out as it presses in, his rough-stretched hole still not loose enough to make this easy. He sees stars behind his eyelids as the pressure against him increases, as his body slowly, slowly stretches to accommodate the Sheriff’s huge cock. It hurts less, the Sheriff’s hand again gentle on Robin’s hip.

The widest part of the head slips into him, and it’s the Sheriff who grunts, sounding pleased for the first time in Robin’s memory. He pulls back just enough to spread Robin’s rim tight around the widest part of his cock head again, stilling there and just breathing.

He’s looking at where his cock splits Robin open, Robin thinks. Staring at skin and muscle stretched too far and twitching in time to Robin’s heartbeat. It doesn’t hurt as much as his fingers, hurts less than the Sheriff moving, but--Robin stretches his fingers out, uncurling them from the fists they’d made. “Please,” he begs sweetly, wanting this over more than he wants a reprieve from pain.

“You’ve done this before to take me so easily.” The Sheriff pushes in deeper, his cock breaching Robin’s body. He goes slow, his hands hot and huge on Robin’s ass, his thumbs digging into the skin next to Robin’s hole, pulling it tight. “Your body swallows my cock like it was made for it.”

Robin bites his lip and tongue, determinedly not asking what part of this looks  _ easy _ . His guts feel like they’re rearranging around the massive cock still sliding into him, inch after ruthless inch. It hurts less, sparks of something that could have felt good flitting over Robin’s skin.

“Lovely,” the Sheriff praises him, and Robin’s stomach rolls, pleasure and shame warring. “You’re going to take all of me without even a whimper, aren’t you?”

Robin wonders, uneasily, how much more there is to take. It feels like the Sheriff is brushing his navel from the inside, and still he can’t feel the Sheriff’s thighs against the back of his. The edge of the Sheriff’s cloak brushes against Robin’s leg from knee to ankle, the cock inside him still shoving deeper.

It’s an actual, physical weight inside him, a pressure of his insides rearranging around the Sheriff’s invasion of his body. Robin shivers, and finally fine woven linen tickles the back of his knees. Another second, another slow inch, and he feels the heat of the Sheriff’s balls brush against his own. Robin sighs, something like relief making him almost giddy. The worst of it is over, isn’t it? Just a little back and forth, and Robin will be on his way.

“Beautiful. What an...accommodating...hole you have, little Robin.”

Robin can barely breathe around the cock inside him, his body stretched to its absolute limits. He’s never been so filled, so pushed to the max. He doesn’t hate it as much as he probably should.

He’s limp when the Sheriff drags him upright, making only a garbled sound of confusion because he can’t think of what to say. The new position shoves the Sheriff a fraction deeper, changes the angle to a new and nearly painful press inside him. Robin’s forced up on his toes, even with the Sheriff’s knees bent.

The Sheriff drops into the chair behind them, his cock pulling free in one smooth pull, and leaving Robin empty and off balance. “What--”

“Have a seat,” The Sheriff suggests, turning Robin to face him with a casually possessive hand on his wrist. His cock is wet in the firelight, red with reflected fire when he gestures at it, indicating where Robin should place himself. “Let’s speak face to face. Do you know I’ve never had a man come while on my cock?”

Robin’s mind blanks out for a second, maybe ten, while he straddles the Sheriff’s thighs, the Sheriff helpfully holding his cock at an angle while Robin struggles to get his hips high enough to have it at his hole. “Is that a challenge, Sheriff?” He eventually asks, the head of the Sheriff’s cock splitting him for the third time that night. 

Robin’s cock is half hard as the Sheriff lifts it, weighing it in his palm as he nudges Robin downward with a gentle hand on the small of his back. “How about a bet?”

The cock splitting his ass feels almost new at this angle, pressing toward Robin’s spine rather than his stomach. It still slides in with unnerving ease for how thick and long it is. “What--What kind of bet?” Robin asks, his cock twitching in the Sheriff’s hand as he reaches halfway. It sparks an ache, and instinctively Robin hitches his hips higher before sliding back down, half-fucking himself on it as the Sheriff watches.

“I’ll allow you to escape.” The Sheriff brushes his fingers across Robin’s cock, and it feels--

“If I lose?” Robin asks, already certain that they both know he won’t. He settles into the Sheriff’s lap finally, taking him to the hilt with a not entirely fake sigh. The Sheriff’s belt digs into the skin of his thighs, and Robin squirms a little, watching pleasure flit across the Sheriff’s face.

“A secret, I’m afraid.”

He’s not going to lose. “I accept,” Robin says, rocking on the Sheriff’s cock with eagerness spurred solely for winning the bet. He can feel it in every part of his core, a fullness that makes Robin touch his stomach like he’ll be able to feel the Sheriff through it. 

The Sheriff rolls Robin’s nipple between his fingers, sparking a bolt of pure pleasure for the first time that night. Robin lets his head drop back, eyes closing as his hair brushes against his naked shoulders. If he pretends--he doesn’t really need to pretend, though. He fucks himself on the Sheriff’s thick cock eagerly, nudged onward by gentle touches and caresses until his cock is hard and dripping in the Sheriff’s hand. 

“Are you going to come?” the Sheriff asks, barely waiting for Robin’s nod before he drags Robin against his chest, pressing his mouth against Robin’s half-open lips in a rough kiss. The Sheriff’s skin is hot under Robin’s cock, and he ruts mindlessly against it as he fucks himself on the huge cock filling him. 

The Sheriff wraps his arms around Robin, his mouth warm and careful against Robin’s, sending a strange and buzzing pleasure through Robin’s skin. It feels intimate in a way that a cock inside him didn’t, more obscene than anything else the Sheriff has done. Robin melts into the Sheriff, his mind shrieking protests that this isn’t what this was meant to be, that this is wrong. It feels good, though, the warmth around, below, and within him. It feels comforting and almost safe, and it’s that particular madness that sends Robin over the edge, his cum spilling out between their stomachs.

He tightens around the Sheriff’s cock, pleasure pulsing through his body, and Robin feels the moment the Sheriff joins him, his hips jerking up into Robin in a short, stuttering rhythm as he spills his seed inside Robin.

Robin is still rolling through aftershocks when the Sheriff starts petting his hair. It’s those echoes of pleasure that make him press his face against the Sheriff’s neck and breathe in his scent, a temporary loss of sanity brought on by sex and nothing more. Or more acting and pretenses of enjoyment. It’s ungenuine, Robin is very certain of that.

The fire crackles and sparks as Robin fails to pull away and the Sheriff pets him. “I guess you win,” the Sheriff muses, eventually, and Robin jerks awake with a choked off gasp. “I suppose that means you’re free to go.”

The evidence of Robin’s enjoyment is still wet between them when Robin crawls out of the Sheriff’s lap and goes for his clothes.


End file.
